


Curing Influenza

by reveneration



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveneration/pseuds/reveneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now living in the human world, Mizael is up late at night trying to help a sick Durbe back to health. He's not quite used to these human problems just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curing Influenza

> _Just hold on to me, I’ll hold on to you  
>  It’s you and me up against the world  
> It’s you and [me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9ke8G5n9EI)_

Mizael feels almost stupid standing in the pharmacy in his plaid pyjamas bottoms and oversized sweater, flushed from lack of sleep and hair up in a loose bun while he holds two types of flu medication. He squints, sighing to himself and groaning.  
“One with… mucus control… one with drowsy…” Mizael looks up at the clerk who walks by and only narrows his eyes before they can ask to help. He doesn’t need help he just needs to find a fucking bottle of pills that’ll get Durbe through the night. He eventually decides on both and heads to the cash where the young girl behind the counter smiles sympathetically at his dishevelled appearance.

“Do you need a bag?”

Mizael shakes his head and excuses himself to yawn into the back of his arm. “Sorry. Late night.” He steals a glance at the clock which reads 3:36 in the morning and he knows at that moment he won’t be going to work tomorrow. Not that he wanted to, if he’s honest with himself. Durbe doesn’t need coddling of any sort but whatever bug he’s caught is much harder on him than any cold or cough either of them had before.   
He’s been up for nearly three nights coughing until he dry-heaves over the sink and spits out bile. His fever comes and goes and he goes between so hot he takes cold baths, and so cold he’ll pile on four sweaters and a blanket or two for good measure

Mizael tucks the bottles into the pocket of his sweater and thanks the cashier when he leaves, tiredly crawling back into his car and pressing his forehead to the steering wheel while he runs over a mental check-list of anything else he should get. Juice. Soup… ginger ale and… applesauce. Mizael nods and traces the route to the 24-hour store in his mind before he drives off, only to get a call at the first set of lights.

“I’m driving,” he warns without a hello. “Is everything okay?”

“You weren’t here when I got up -” Mizael flinches away from the receiver as Durbe coughs into it. “Where are you?”

“I’ll be home in fifteen. I’m just getting you something for the cough.” Mizael sighs against the mouthpiece and looks around to be sure there’s no cops out patrolling for people on cells or running lights. “Be back soon.” He hangs up after Durbe’s raspy ‘goodbye’ and rubs his eyes when he stops at a red light. God, he needed some sleep, and so did Durbe.  
If there was something to be said about this whole human thing… Well, sickness was always a drawback. Within their first few months, Mizael had come down with a terrible chest infection that left him on bedrest for weeks.

Of course… Durbe had been there through everything, patiently spooning him chicken noodle soup between mutters of ‘stop talking with your mouth full’ and ‘shut up and let me take care of you for a change’.

“Idiot.”

There’s something about this store that Mizael hates. It’s either the burnt-out ‘4’ or the way the cashier always eyes him when he goes to buy anything. Sometime he makes comments on the contents of his purchases which only makes his skin crawl.   
That was when he started buying certain things at the drugstore.  
Perhaps he’ll be spared that encounter tonight, though he doubts it. Mizael turns over the possible questions in the back of his head while he debates between unsweetened applesauce and applesauce with berries (doesn’t that defeat the point of the apple portion of… nevermind, whatever Durbe wanted). It’s not that he doesn’t want to go home he just likes the brief moments of not having to really think. Some generic pop song from some time back (he guesses, music isn’t exactly his thing) plays quietly over the speakers and there he is, making choices for food items as if they’re life choices.

He worries too much. Durbe reminds him of this often.  
Was this any exception?

He did say fifteen minutes, however.

His phone tells him he has seven minutes now to get home. After he gets back in the car, it’s down to three. Hopefully Durbe won’t call again, he has a bad habit of doing so when Mizael isn’t punctual. He runs two red lights and parks crooked, staggering into the building and jamming his thumb against the elevator button four or five times before the doors open.  
His phone vibrates just as he puts the key in the door.

“I’m here. I didn’t get into some fatal car crash,” he mutters with a tired yawn. “You okay?”

“You can’t just wander out like that in the middle of the night!” The reply sounds less threatening when it’s spoken through a congested nose and a coughing fit. And yet still, Mizael almost winces. Upsetting Durbe is the last thing he wants to do while he’s sick (not that he likes upsetting Durbe ever, but…).

“You needed medicine. It’s not as if we can go to the doctor given our…” Mizael waves a hand around absently and then fishes into his sweater for the bottles without finishing the sentence. “Here… take one of these and we’ll put you to bed. I got some ginger ale, so I’ll get you a glass of -”

“I don’t need to be babied.”

“Just take the damn medicine!” Mizael wraps his fingers around Durbe’s wrist and squeezes it gently, sighing as he shuts his eyes and tries to bite back the hard snap. “Please. I don’t like seeing you this way.” He offers a sheepish grin and shakes his head. “You’d baby me if the roles were reversed.”  
Durbe tries to huff but it gets caught in his throat and he starts to cough again. It’s now 4:02 and Mizael is beyond exhausted. He wants to sleep. Durbe needs to sleep.

“Can we just lay down?”

For a moment he thinks Durbe’s going to turn him away and scold him, but instead he sighs and shakes his head while opening the box that has the sleep aid. He passes it to Mizael to open and pulls his sweater tighter around himself. “It’s a little embarrassing you know. Being like this. I feel…”

“Human?”

“Weak.” Durbe presses his lips together and takes the bottle back with a light scowl. “This is our world now, Mizael. You can’t keep hating humans with that much inten -”

“I meant we’re not used to things like colds and stomach aches,” he replies, a bit too hard. Mizael clenches his teeth to try and bite back his words but they’ve already hit, and Durbe stomps off (god, he’s so childish when he’s sick) with a mutter of ‘I don’t need this’ toward the bedroom.  
“Durbe!”  
He doesn’t answer, only closes the bathroom door where Mizael hears him coughing and running water. Well… at least he’s taking the medicine…

Still, walking on eggshells this way was getting exhausting. This humanbusiness is getting to be a bit much at times. Yes, it was their life now, but that didn’t mean it was any easier. Durbe adapted well as Mizael had expected but he… he’d struggled. Even now it’s not a walk in the park for him to acknowledge that while Barian, they have no home other than these humans skins, walking streets he’d had to learn through aimless wandering downtown and fumbling around on touch screen phones and their map applications (he was still rubbish at them).

“Durbe, come on… Let’s get to bed and you can tell me I’m a jerk in the morning.” Mizael raps his knuckles over the door and sighs. “You’re being a bit of a brat.”

“I’m a brat? You’re a brat!”  
Durbe throws the door open and stares indignantly at Mizael, looking bristled with his shoulders drawn back. The image is ruined by the toothbrush sticking out of the corner of his mouth, which he takes out to wave at Mizael. “You…. you keep…! I’m not a…! I can take care of myself I don’t - mmph!” Durbe waves his arms for a moment in wild confusion when Mizael put his mouth to his own, despite him being sick and covered in mint toothpaste.  
“Mizael!”

“I’m calling in tomorrow. I’ll cook you some homemade chicken noodle soup tomorrow, okay?” He wipes his mouth with his sleep and grins at the expression on Durbe’s face. “That okay?” he repeats.

“You’re going to be sick now,” mutters Durbe while he turns back to spit and rinse. “And I will not being staying home to take care of you.” It’s a lie. They both know Durbe would trip over his own two feet trying to make sure Mizael didn’t have to strain himself. “…Soup sounds nice, though. And I’ll take that ginger ale.”

“Only if I get to tuck you in.”

“You can shut it.” Durbe yawns and breaks into another coughing fit while heading off toward their bedroom. “Don’t go back out tonight, okay? I’m sick and I want you here and you’re going to wake up next to me and be disgustingly mother bird like, okay?”

“Was that a crack at me?”

Durbe only smiles and opens the bedroom door with a chuckle. “Maybe just a small one. I’ll wait for you.”


End file.
